isn’t anything car scissors at the crossroads, have sheared the morning, from the end of night and the blue white ghost moon, heavy fogged and branch bound,
not in service the time now, in my heart, is half past done. you drummed my beat irregular, from across the street. now, stacked up high with leaving intentions, i am moving,
a snowy Saturday in January and i wish you were here a dense, grey gruel of cadaverous air, slanders the chimney pots. birds hang on branches like tears clinging to an eyelash.
bran tub i am sat beside a large tub. it is filled with light brown soil, supporting a shrub that is unknown to me. perhaps it has origins in Japan. it reminds me of a bran tub
